In my world there would be no commercials for feminine products on television. I can't tell you how the flutter of the paper wings annoys me when it interrupts my CSI rerun. Ditto for the advertising genius that came up with the line "have a good period." Now even though I am at least ten years past my need for these items and occasionally smirk when I hear a young woman complain of cramps, I still resent being subjected to a reminder of body fluids that do not include me in the focus of some demographic study group.

You wait; the next new thing will be public toilets. No, I'm not talking about little blue cabins that litter construction sites. Hell no, I'm talking about store front arenas where a client can enter, pay their money and choose a room depending on their mood. Of course all chambers will be equipped with two way glass so that the customer can fart and grunt to their heart's content into a glass bowl while crowds on 6TH Avenue watch the progress of the little turd who "thought he could, thought he could" exit with a major plop and a satisfied swipe; a money maker, for sure. Absolutely, the final frontier of human dignity.

Think of the potential, the franchising opportunities and the game show spin offs. The hairiest or biggest ass in America goes butt to butt with the all time champion of flatulence.

When I had my first experience with "my little friend" as the girls coyly called menstruation, I remember distinctly the uncomfortable shame of having to go into the store to buy Kotex. That was the only brand available back there in the Iron Age. I think it was stocked right next to the chastity belts. Little did I know that you needed a harness to use the product; no self-adhesive strips to cling to your panties in those days. I didn't know that when I brought the distinctive blue box home and hid in the bathroom, reading the instructions. That meant a second trip to the corner store. But now it was Billy standing behind the counter. His mom had gone upstairs to cook dinner. I broke into tears. He was so flustered that he called his mom and she helped me out.

Who can forget Tampax? The idea that you could go swimming was the most intoxicating invitation to young ladies that I ever heard. It's been half a century since my adventure with the cardboard cylinders, but I remember the day as if it were yesterday.

As I eyed the missile and shook my head, believing that this meant the end of my virginity, I carefully squatted. OOPS! On my second try I missed entirely. Finally I reached my target, but whether it was a case of nerves or an unfamiliar sensation, I hadn't actually calculated correctly. The insertion was incomplete and my body spit it out as if it was called up to defend; some self-survivor instinct I didn't know I possessed.

Like I said, in my world there would be no television advertisement for light days, overnight protection and those wings can go straight to hell.

I have three granddaughters, but they're toddlers, a decade at least until they need to think about which product suits their "flow." I suppose I shall throw them a party and celebrate their menses if I'm still around. One thing I am absolutely certain about; I'll undoubtedly buy one of everything on the shelf and let them decide for themselves. I'll take away the shame, but the angst is personal and I don't think I have the right to steal that passage from their lives.

In my world mothers and grandmothers are in charge of menstruation, just as they are in choosing husbands and careers for our kids. We were the groundbreakers, the pioneers of feminism.

Now, the Depends commercial are another topic entirely. I recently watched a commercial that featured a user of this product conducting a symphony orchestra. Her secret was safe. They announced that new colors are available. I ponder how an infusion of color to my underwear drawer, will spice up my marriage.

Imagine, women today, in the twenty-first century can bleed and pee wherever they want and no one will be any the wiser.

Now that's progress!